


Idle Worship

by darrenjolras



Series: Arcadia ballet!verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (really this is just C squared making fun of his pining), Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, First Meetings, M/M, Pining Enjolras, also featuring minor appearances by cosette eponine and feuilly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:33:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrenjolras/pseuds/darrenjolras
Summary: “Who was that?” He asks.His eyebrows crash together in confusion when Courfeyrac just looks at him. Looks at him andlaughs, cracks up completely, actually doubles over from the force of it.“Courf,” Enjolras entreats, blowing out a breath in quiet exasperation. “Seriously.” He feels like he’s missing the joke here.“You’reserious?” Courf replies. He straightens up at last, slinging a patronising arm around Enjolras’ shoulder. An echo of laughter still colours his sympathetic tone. “Don’t worry. It’ll come to you.”





	Idle Worship

**Author's Note:**

> A little extra E/R centred oneshot, inspired by suggestions from [dawesome](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dawesome/pseuds/dawesome) and an anon on tumblr who both mentioned piningjolras point of view! Set during Chapter 1 and the time before Chapter 2 of Liberté Egalité Demi-plié, with added Courf & Ferre commentary! I'm not entirely sure how much sense it'll make if you haven't read that! 
> 
> (This was supposed to be much shorter than it actually is, whoops.)

It’s hard _not_ to hear when _Apollo_ gets mentioned only a few feet away.

Post-performance plans aren’t something Enjolras is particularly used to. By the end of an evening of dancing there’s little more he has the urge to do than get changed and go home, fish something out of the fridge and then soak in the shower for a while. Some nights he’ll read for a while to wind down, or, often already in his pyjamas, keep Combeferre company in his work or his late-night cups of tea.

At a premiere in Paris, his mother - and grandmother, sometimes - might have been there, and could have taken him out for a nostalgic dinner like at the end of every year at the Ballet School. When they weren’t, Enjolras tended not to stay long, his last energies dutifully expended in small talk with the people it was important to meet.

Tonight doesn’t seem to be about that, though; this is less official an event, just the cast letting loose. Enjolras can’t pretend to be much familiar with this, either. All his hours in the studio and on stage with his Paris Ballet peers never seemed to amount to much outside of dancing hours. Hardly any of the colleagues he’d actually felt himself friends with had continued right through school to the first division, and fewer of them still had been accepted into the company proper. Naturally, it was easier to forgo celebration than to bother trying to celebrate alone. Easier just to focus on the work. He wouldn’t have known where to begin.

Being at a new company is a new start, though, and he means to try harder here. He thinks that maybe he comes across too serious, perhaps finds it hard to feign interest in other topics, too often catches himself talking about ballet again when other people are past caring. But Courfeyrac is at hand tonight, refusing to let him leave for home; he is grateful to have Courfeyrac at all, when the other dancer seems to have his pick of friends and might well know every face he sees, in the studio or otherwise.

Courf starts by steering them to a spot a few metres away from the bar, leaving Enjolras to mill around. Thankfully, by the time he returns, pressing a drink into Enjolras’ hand, Enjolras isn’t alone. It helps that this company recruits differently than in Paris: it’s a more even split between graduates of their own attached academy and dancers from foreign schools. Cosette Fauchelevent, then, is just as new as he is, and they’ve been friendly since even before the most recent six weeks of Balanchine rehearsals together: she has a knack for remembering faces and, conveniently, he’s good at names. (Of the two of them, he is absolutely also better than her at navigating both the hallways and their daily schedules. He’s had hers memorised since week one.) 

“Cheers,” Cosette says with a quirked eyebrow, giving into Courfeyrac’s insistence that she take his drink. He swerves back to the bar for himself; meanwhile, Enjolras clinks his glass against hers with a smile and takes a sip of his own. There’s not much use in the alcohol tonight, though he accepted it obligingly: his head is already fuzzy from performing, from the potent mix of hairspray and the heat of the lights, the cling of makeup and crushed rosin and sweat. It’d be a worse feeling if they weren’t still coming down from the high of dancing, the euphoria not yet settled into their limbs as pure exhaustion.

“First night down,” Enjolras returns. By the end he loved it, like he always does - but even though this is not his first ballet, first performances still nauseate him slightly.    

“We did it,” Cosette trills, still trying to smile whilst she sips from her straw. “It went well, I thought.”

“I thought so.” He agrees brightly. “Though we should probably practise that section after the chair, you know -” he does a hand gesture in demonstration. Not that it went badly, of course, but he knows they’ve done it _better_ , and his post-performance-brain has a habit of magnifying and marinating in every detail instead of switching off now that it’s done.

“Pfft,” she tells him, “that looked fine from the front. Fine for you, anyway, I nearly stubbed my toe.” She pouts. He tries not to laugh.

“You say that, but we’re going to get called up on it in class,” Enjolras warns her, inclining his head knowingly.

“I bet you we won’t,” Cosette returns. “Not from Miss M.”

“It’ll be in her notes.” He insists with a wry smile. If there’s one thing the ballet world is good at, it’s fussy perfectionism.

“If it is, it’ll be on me. She has _such_ a crush on you.” There’s a teasing gleam in her eye now. “Oh, Enjolras,” she mimics, in a - startlingly accurate - rendition of one of the ballet mistresses, running her hand along his arm as Miss M possibly _is_ wont to do, “what bea- _u_ -tiful lines, would you _look_ at that arabesque... faster, Cosette! Snap to it!”

“Very funny,” he says dryly.

 They talk a while longer, neither of them much noticing that Courfeyrac has evidently gotten lost somewhere along the way. Eventually though, Cosette can no longer avoid the stare of an overbearing older principal who has been attempting to make eye-contact with her for the last ten minutes. “I’d better see what she wants,” she murmurs, with a dutiful sigh.

“Go,” he ushers her on. “I’ve just seen Feuilly.”

“Come save me later!” She stage-whispers, as she goes. He just waves in sympathy, setting down his empty glass. Feuilly has caught sight of him too, and they make a gesture of the plan to meet over by one of the pillars. Enjolras gets most of the way, but before Feuilly can reach him, another of the evening’s dancers crosses his path, and so he pauses to exchange a few words and well-wishes with them for their part in the third dance that he’d caught a little of from the wings.   

Feuilly’s gotten waylaid, too, it looks like. Enjolras won’t lie, he was a little intimidated by Feuilly at first. He’s one of the quiet ones, keeps himself to himself and has astounding ballet technique. But as well as Arabic and a little Russian, Feuilly is fluent in French; even if he weren’t, there’s something about him that makes him startlingly easy to talk to. It could be the way he listens so directly, a certain gleam in his eye when a topic catches his interest. He knows a lot, and a little of everything, and even seems genuinely interested in the weekly children’s workshop Enjolras has recently championed in the upstairs studio on Wednesdays.

The other dancer leaves Enjolras with a broad smile, but with Feuilly still sidetracked, Enjolras finds himself standing alone again.

His eyes inadvertently fall upon Feuilly’s pas de deux partner instead, who is milling around nearby. Eponine Thenardier: soloist, wears a lot of black, with a choppy fringe and a look of invariable boredom on her face. Feuilly seems downright approachable beside her; he’s heard people mention how she has a strange way of looking right through you. There are select few company dancers she seems to talk to (Courfeyrac is among them), but Enjolras hasn’t spoken to Eponine himself, though he has watched Cosette’s unflagging attempts to bond with her. Or, for that matter, to spark _any_ sort of conversation that receives more than a word in answer. He can’t help but wonder if Cosette is even more desperate to make friends here than he is. Maybe the women in the company are just the tougher crowd; Cosette is difficult _not_ to like, Enjolras would have said... in any case, Eponine doesn’t seem convinced.

But it’s Eponine who has just mentioned his _Apollo_ piece. Enjolras glances away before she can catch him staring, but when he looks over again, sidelong, she’s too busy smirking at the man she’s with. He can only see the back of him, but he can tell he’s not with the company, definitely hasn’t been dancing tonight. He’s in faded black jeans, hands in his pockets and his posture slouched, and his brown hair is shaggy and unkempt, curling wildly over his ears. Just a friend, then? A boyfriend?

Enjolras wouldn’t otherwise care to mull over the man’s identity, if Eponine hadn’t just asked for his opinion on the ballet. As it is, Enjolras lingers where he is, granting himself one small moment of idle curiosity. He doesn’t make a habit of it, but occasionally it _can_ be interesting to hear an outsider’s opinion -

“Oh, god.” The guy groans. “ _Him_.”

Enjolras freezes. Given his was the only male part in the piece, there’s no room to mistake that for being about another dancer. He rather wishes he could.

Eponine seems to agree with that assessment. “Right? He’s ridiculous.”

That’s new. Which isn’t to say he’s been expecting to hear bald praise and nothing else - he _knows_ how far from perfect he is - but ridiculous seems a _little_ unfair. Maybe this guy isn’t a dancer, but _Eponine_ is, so he can’t figure out where her contempt is coming from.

“ _Ridiculous_ is an understatement.”

He can feel his brows knitting furiously together, because the guy’s apparently not finished. Enjolras’ ears are ringing from the start, so searing with indignation - _overdo everything?_ \- that he misses a healthy chunk of the man’s muttered rant, but he can see Eponine rolling her eyes and can’t quite believe what’s going on.

Whatever he _was_ expecting, he didn’t anticipate arousing so much feeling in anyone.

Even if that feeling is outright scorn.  

Enjolras doesn’t offend easily. Well, strictly speaking, that’s not true: he’s offended by a lot, at least on a societal level. But on a _personal_ level, he’s, if not completely impervious, certainly not overly sensitive about it. Criticism, he can take: he’ll listen willingly. Flaws need to be pointed out so that they can be improved and corrected, he understands that. What he doesn’t understand is the culture of jeering at things - sometimes things you know nothing about -  wherein it is easier to hate than admire, and always cooler not to care. And as if doing it anonymously, saying things when you think they won’t be heard, makes it any better. Please.

He tunes back in just in time to hear that question. Who does he think _he_ is? Now that’s a question he could bat right back.

And, well - he actually _could_. He’s not two metres away.

Enjolras strides forwards. ( _Go make some friends tonight,_ he had told himself. _It can’t be that hard. Talk to some people. Relax.)_

I am _fucking_ relaxed, he reminds himself serenely, as he reaches the man’s side in perfect time.

“Enjolras,” he offers calmly, as cool and charming as he has ever been. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

It is his moment of triumph, and Enjolras is ready to bask in it. The man turns to look at him, guilty astonishment scrawled across his face. But there’s something else that strikes him, almost catches _Enjolras_ off guard as he takes in messy eyebrows and stubble and a slightly crooked nose, widened eyes that are a startling shade of blue. Logic dictates that he has never met this guy before - where would he have, if he’s not in the company? - and yet there’s something about him that is almost familiar.

Whoever the man is, he doesn’t return the introduction, and so it is with a twinge of annoyance that Enjolras turns to Eponine, who does. “I think I’ve seen you in class,” he confirms. He caught a little of her part in the middle ballet tonight, and it is not insincerely that he adds, “Congratulations on tonight.”

“We were just saying how good you were in _Apollo_ ,” Eponine tells him, like he hasn’t just heard them making a complete mockery of his dancing.

He meets her eyes directly, keeping both his tone and his expression neutral. “It’s fine. I don’t mind hearing honest feedback.” It’s an open invitation, a little of a challenge. _Say it to my face, if you like._

Eponine looks unruffled by this, but neither does she seem inclined to take him up on it. Before Enjolras can change the subject, though, her friend opens his mouth. “Okay,” he says, without hesitation. “Yeah, well, I thought you got that godly arrogance down pat, and we were just wondering whether you actually learned to play the lyre.”

Enjolras’ mouth nearly falls open too, flabbergasted. Godly arrogance? Is that supposed to be sarcastic? Maybe that _was_ a joke, because he goes on quite nonchalantly to admit he does have quibbles.

“What are they?” He asks, trying not to let his eyes narrow. He did ask for honest feedback, after all. If there was room in him for anything more than sheer incredulousness, he might be impressed by the guy’s nerve.

The stranger ticks off a triad of things with such offhand confidence that Enjolras finds himself mentally skipping back to the performance to reevaluate, to call up some kind of defence. So there might have been a second of wavering in the arabesque, and he spotted the moment with Cosette that Enjolras freely acknowledges - but his finger placement? He’s not a _child_. He’s been dancing for years; he knows how his hands should look, thank you very much. He can’t imagine that any of his fingers were more than _minutely_ out of place at any stage in _Apollo_ , and yet his eyes drop hastily to his hands to be sure there is no merit in that criticism.

The guy notices, he’s certain of it. He grinds his teeth.

“And you are?” Enjolras demands, raking his gaze back over the man. There’s still something about him, an insistent tugging, a kind of unidentifiable familiarity. He must be in the industry or adjacent somehow, given his eye for ballet. Enjolras is reeling through names of local dance critics in his mind, but none of them seem to match up.

“Enchanted to meet you.”

He feels like he’s being made fun of again.

“You’re not a journalist, are you?” He tries.

“Nope,” the man answers maddeningly.

“Of course he’s not,” says a new voice, and in comes Courfeyrac, because of course _Courf_ knows him. Maybe he’s just one of their friends -

Back. Directing? Choreographing? Enjolras tries to catch up with the conversation, which has altered now, and the stranger is - thankfully - having a more difficult time evading Courfeyrac’s probing.

Enjolras finds himself drawn back to those blue eyes without quite knowing why. What _is it_ about him?

The stranger catches him looking, so he swiftly puts in a question of his own. “Who for?”

He’s freelancing, apparently - brave of him.  

And he’s adapting the _Iliad,_ which Enjolras certainly wasn’t expecting. Sounds like a grand scale to be working on. He must be some up-and-coming choreographer, then, though his earlier attitude is still grating on Enjolras’ nerves, which may be why he feels justified in sounding less-than-impressed. “Really?” He asks.

Really. The guy’s laughing now, and collects himself long enough to throw out some line about _auditions_ for his project, and then he’s making his excuses and Eponine is whisking him away.

Enjolras stares after them, brow furrowed.

“What did I miss?” Courf says, leaning sideways into him, trying to nudge Enjolras into life.

He offers the merest fraction of a shrug. “I have no idea.”

Courfeyrac lets it go, and entirely unperturbed, starts off on another subject. Enjolras tries his best to listen to his impassioned rambling, but his concentration is lagging. He blames the question still nagging him, and at last gives into it, interrupting Courf mid-rant.

“Who was that?” He asks.

His eyebrows crash together in confusion when Courfeyrac just looks at him. Looks at him and _laughs_ , cracks up completely, actually doubles over from the force of it.  

“Courf,” Enjolras entreats, blowing out a breath in quiet exasperation. “Seriously.” He feels like he’s missing the joke here.

“ _You’re_ serious?” Courf replies. He straightens up at last, slinging a patronising arm around Enjolras’ shoulder. An echo of laughter still colours his sympathetic tone. “Don’t worry. It’ll come to you.”

Not sympathetic enough to just _tell him_ , then.

  

Enjolras leaves for home not long after that, and the solitary journey drives the niggling question mostly from his mind, the tiredness taking over. When he lets himself into the flat, Ferre is working on his laptop at the table, but he’s also in the midst of a discussion on the phone, so they merely exchange smiles and mouthed hellos before Enjolras heads down the hall.

He spends a little longer than usual in the shower, scrubbing off the post-show feeling and gratefully soaking in the fact that the first class tomorrow has been shifted back a precious hour. He’ll sleep soundly tonight, he’s sure.

Towel around his waist, he pads back across the hall, pulling his bedroom door up behind him. His room is plain enough: there’s a wardrobe squeezed in the corner beside the window, a desk and chair set up across from the foot of the bed, and a bookcase teetering beside it. The bookcase is most cluttered with personal effects; the only other area distinctly Enjolras is the cork pinboard above the desk, decorated with a collage of photos and articles, programmes and cut-outs. He glances over at it as he bundles some dirty clothes on the bed into his arms; one of the corners of his old Rudolf Nureyev poster has curled up again. A veteran of that particular battle, Enjolras leans in before he can throw his clothes in the laundry basket and presses the corner back into place with his elbow. “Now stay,” he warns Nureyev, eyes skirting over the rest of the pinboard for more loose corners. Everything else seems more secure: the family photos, the Misty Copeland interview, a couple of programmes from his first professional season, that picture of Gr-

It’s like he’s been jolted to life by an electric shock. With the sudden, overwhelming feeling of being about to choke, Enjolras shakes his head and pivots away, marching to the wardrobe to throw the clothes into the basket at the bottom of it. The wardrobe door closes with a bang. He paces back to where he was, rooted in place again. He doesn’t want to do a double-take - really doesn’t want to know - but his eyes are drawn back in spite of himself.

“No,” he tells himself out loud, because that can’t be.

It _can’t_ be.

But it _is_. He knows the picture well, could sketch it in his mind’s eye without trouble: the dancer in it strikes a croisé position against a shadowy backdrop. He’s in full classical costume, princely tunic and white tights, his face clean-shaven and his hair slicked back. The tilt of his head is the most captivating part: his gaze is thrown wildly over his shoulder, and there’s something tortured in the motion, tormented.   

It’s from years ago, of course. He looks almost boyish there; it’s no wonder he was practically unrecognisable. The darkness of the stage lighting and distance of the figure in the photo don’t show his face too clearly either, but at last Enjolras doesn’t need to _try_ to imagine seeing the shot in close-up. He already knows the particular shade of Grantaire’s blue eyes.  

“Nooooo,” he groans, taking a step back and slumping heavily onto the bed, ignoring both the fact that he is still in his towel and that he is being needlessly dramatic. “Please, no.” Laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, Enjolras at least avoids having the pinboard in his line of sight, but his expression is contorted as he replays the evening in his mind from this newfound angle of enlightenment.

As it turns out, he gets very little sleep.   

 

It’s not one of his better mornings, Enjolras admits to himself as he shows up for warm up class. With great reluctance, he steps into the studio, half made of mortification and half lingering resentment. The former is for not realising he was talking to only the best ballet dancer of the generation, and the latter for how that conversation - of all the conversations on _earth_ \- had gone. It all makes sense _now_ , of course, though he thinks he ought to be forgiven for his obliviousness. Because with no warning and no explanation, Grantaire is returning to the ballet world, which is something Enjolras thought would never happen, never even hoped to see.  

(Grantaire is also as infuriating as anyone has ever made him out to be. Enjolras isn’t sure why he has always been so inclined to believe otherwise.)

It would be nice if he could stop thinking about him for at least a minute, then.

And Courfeyrac is already here, leaning over one of the barres. He’s talking to Eponine across it, but his eyes latch onto Enjolras far too quickly, and Enjolras’ expression must be giving him away, because he can see that Courf is already twitching in glee.

He tosses down his bag and stalks over, not looking forward to a full day of being made fun of.

“- and I thought nothing in the world would make him come back,” Eponine is busy saying, “ _ever_. I dunno, maybe it’s the right time, maybe it’s what he needs right now. But if I’d known all it would take was -”

She breaks off when Enjolras reaches them. “Morning,” he says, eyeing them both warily.

“Enjolras,” Eponine offers in acknowledgement as she pushes off the barre and slides away, back down to her place. He is surprised to hear no venom in it. In fact, it’s nearly friendly. Hm.

“Good morning, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, with a wicked smile. Luckily, he is saved by the entrance of the ballet master, whose impatient clap sees the room mostly fall quiet.

“To your barres!” The instructor declares. “On my count: plié, plié, battement tendu -”

 

No one finds much time in the day to tease him outright, although Enjolras is sure the story has spread - Feuilly keeps looking like he’s on the verge of saying something, and Cosette has definitely been stifling giggles.

Still, it’s nothing he can’t ignore. This must have seen him slip into a false sense of security at some stage, since when he arrives back home at the flat after his last afternoon session - no performance tonight - he is shocked to find Courfeyrac sprawled comfortably in the armchair. But of course he is.

“How did you get here so quickly?” He declares, eyes narrowed.

“Super sonic speed, baby,” Courfeyrac replies carelessly.

“He caught the fast bus,” Combeferre translates, from where he’s sitting on the couch. He’s got a book on his lap, but Enjolras expects that he was more embroiled in conversation with Courfeyrac than it.

“I’d say it was nice to see you, but,” Enjolras deadpans pointedly, because he has a sneaking suspicion of precisely what their conversation was about. He marches past them into the kitchen on the pretence of finding food, but is also waiting to hear how soon they return to it.

Neither of them have the decency to pause their discussion until he can shut himself up in his room, and launch back into it immediately. Some friends they are.

“When did he figure it out, did you hear?” (Enjolras can picture Courfeyrac leaning forwards in eagerness without much needing to see it.) “Last night? This morning?”

“I was busy when he came in, so I might have missed it,” Combeferre replies. “And he didn’t say.”

He opens a cupboard, but nothing he feels like eating leaps out at him.

“Shame,” Courfeyrac sighs. “I would have liked it on video.”

“You’d have seen my reaction if you’d just told me yourself,” Enjolras interjects, shutting the cupboard with a little more force than necessary. He plucks up a tangerine from the fruitbowl instead, and rounds the corner again.

“Oh, but this is good too,” Courfeyrac says, and when Enjolras passes by the armchair, he reaches out to tug at him by the sleeve, pull him back towards them. Combeferre shifts so there’s room on the sofa and peers at him expectantly. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but allows himself to be dragged down until he’s sitting between them. Jesus, they’re like a second set of parents.

He turns his attentions to determinedly peeling his tangerine.

“How long _did_ it take you?” Combeferre inquires of him.

“Not long,” Enjolras mutters, shooting Courfeyrac a dirty look. Courfeyrac is too busy laughing to care.

“No heart attacks, then? A fainting spell?” Courf leans over to try and jokingly test his forehead as if he’s been swooning all day from the memory or something; Enjolras swats his hand away.

“This is only funny because I’ve mentioned him before,” he admits begrudgingly, carefully separating some tangerine segments. Grantaire’s a famous dancer. It could have been anyone.

“Mentioned?” Courfeyrac splutters. “Dude.”

“Fine,” Enjolras amends delicately, “talked about him. Once or twice.”

“Once or _twice_?”

Maybe this wasn’t the best line of argument to embark on.

“Grantaire is _the_ guy,” Courf tells Combeferre. Enjolras is affronted when that cryptic statement appears to make perfect sense to Ferre. He means, Combeferre might have heard a _bit_ about him. He supposes he’s seen the poster in Enjolras’ room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He retorts anyway.

“ _The guy_. Your ballet idol, Enjolras.”

“It’s alright, I know exactly who you mean.” Combeferre returns evenly. “I’ve walked in on Enjolras watching his old performance DVDs.”

The glee is practically radiating from Courf’s face.

“I was _doing research!_ ” Enjolras interjects hotly. "I own DVDs that aren't Grantaire's."

“Don’t think we can’t see your eyes light up the moment someone says his name,” Courf tells him, reaching across to pat him on the knee with a broad smirk. “‘Hey, wasn’t here where he tried to tightrope across the barres one time and nearly cracked his head open?’” he feigns. “‘Remember that time he tried to get the Sleeping Beauty choreographer to slap him mid-rehearsal? I think we had _bets_...’”

There’s a split-second in which Enjolras wants to say, _wait, really?_ ...and that’s when he can feel himself flushing.

“Well, it’s not my fault you all have to bring him up all the time,” he grumbles, sounding more like a petulant toddler than he appreciates. “If you’re such great friends with him, you could have warned me that he’d be there.” He looks to Combeferre for backup.

Combeferre obediently raises an eyebrow at Courf, waiting.

“It was a surprise to me too,” Courfeyrac maintains. “I wouldn’t have wanted to get your hopes up.”

Enjolras scowls. He could try to sound less smug about it.

“But you didn’t recognise him,” Combeferre says, puzzled, turning his raised eyebrow on Enjolras.

“Okay, but -” Enjolras protests, still reeling slightly from the memory of last night and his own blindness. “How was I... how was _anyone_ supposed to recognise him? He looks completely different! His _hair_ \- the, the stubble -” he flounders a little, not sure he wants to start talking about Grantaire’s eyes, which, frankly, were distracting enough - “and it’s not as though he showed up at a bar wearing _tights_!”

Courfeyrac’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. Combeferre, a true master of decorum, has pressed his fist up to his mouth to suppress a loud guffaw.

Enjolras glares at them both, and shoves some more tangerine in his mouth.

“Good to know Enjolras’ crush is still going strong,” Courfeyrac declares, wiping a tear from his eyes.

“Flourishing,” Ferre agrees. Enjolras hates them both.

“It’s not a crush,” he counters stoically; it has become his conditioned response when anyone brings up Grantaire. “I admire him professionally. He’s unparalleled -”

“We’ve heard,” Courfeyrac interjects, giving him a solemn nod and then dissolving into giggles again.

“It’s got nothing to do with him as a person,” Enjolras clarifies, his expression inadvertently hardening. (Maybe it had _something_ to do with him as a person, but only what he’d built up in his head, which is now disintegrated: the Grantaire he met last night is still grating on him. He’s incredibly talented, so of course he’s a total prick.)  

“Oh, I forgot to ask -” Courf says keenly, “what were you two talking about, before I found you both?”

If Enjolras tells the truth, at least the two of them might change their tune. He huffs, grinding his teeth for a moment before he manages a curt summary. “He called me ridiculous and then criticised my performance in _Apollo_.”

Both of them are looking newly quizzical.

“He what?” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras recites everything he can remember, godly arrogance and technical flaws alike. “So,” he finishes, leaving the word hanging in bitter silence.

“I’ll start planning the wedding,” Combeferre deadpans.

Enjolras hits him with a cushion.

Courfeyrac is no better. “Well, that’s Grantaire,” he proclaims, with nothing more than a shrug. And he’s still smiling, grinning so hard that Enjolras’ face is beginning to ache from just _looking_ at it.

“That’s it?” Enjolras queries, looking between them in mild incredulousness. They’re not even going to prompt him to vent some more? He’s ready to. He is _well_ -prepared.

“What is it they say?” Combeferre remarks, with a touch of sympathy. “Never meet your heroes.”

“Never _just_ meet your heroes,” Courfeyrac amends sagely, “when you could _also_ audition for their ballet.”

“No,” Enjolras says, wide-eyed. “No, no, no. No way.” He shakes his head. He hasn’t known Courf all that long (never mind that it _feels_ like years, when Courf’s like this) but there’s one thing he knows for sure, and that is to be firm when vetoing one of his terrible ideas.

Courfeyrac just continues nodding, almost in slow-motion.

“He’s not _actually_ doing that, is he?” Enjolras presses him, still trying to get to grips with the news in his head.

“He most definitely is. I texted him this morning,” Courfeyrac answers, turning to Combeferre. “He’s adapting the _Iliad_ , did I say that already? Dude’s completely mad, but I bet it’ll be good.”

“Wow,” Ferre says.

“What have you got coming up, project-wise? He might need help with the music, want to help out?” Courfeyrac is batting his eyelashes. “You’d get to see _me_ more. I’m auditioning.”

And Combeferre is a sucker, Enjolras thinks grumpily, watching his flatmate mull it over.

“But he _left_ ballet.” Enjolras interrupts, reminding them both - and himself - in frowning disbelief. “He quit.”

He has always half been angry at Grantaire for that. For being so talented, and giving it up just like that, out of nowhere, disappearing for good. The other part of him applauds the bravery of it - for having the courage to just walk away, for having his own mind. It was always the best part of his dancing, too. He could make every move original: as though the steps were inborn instinct and somehow still executed as organically as if the movements had bloomed in his head scarcely a second before. He clearly had the necessary natural advantages for complicated choreography, but something in him seemed to rally against the predictable. He always seemed a mere beat away from veering wildly off-course, would have you transfixed, watching with bated breath. Enjolras has rewatched Grantaire’s ballets plenty of times with a retrospective eye, searching for signs that his heart wasn’t in it, hints of his impending resignation, whether there was a moment things changed for him. He’s never been sure if there _is_ anything to see, or whether there are just too many layers concealing the truth. Sometimes there would be a glimpse, even lurking beneath his most buoyant roles, of _something_ \- destructive, Enjolras thinks. Ruinous recklessness, a desire to push too far, like he would have hurled himself into oblivion if he could.  

“And now he’s back!” Courfeyrac throws up his hands merrily. “Don’t tell me you’re not thrilled to hear it.”

Enjolras doesn’t.

“So you will audition?” Combeferre asks him now.

“He’d never cast me.” He says flatly. He should be relieved for already having that assurance, he supposes, a way to bring an end to Courfeyrac’s ridiculous ideas. In spite of himself, the disappointment pools in his gut. He picks carelessly at the scraps of tangerine peeling collected on his lap. Possibly because - whatever he says, whatever he thinks of Grantaire right now - getting to work with a dancer he admires this much would be a dream, _the_ dream. Maybe because, if he stood even a chance, Enjolras might feel better for proving Grantaire and his scathing evaluation of him wrong. Maybe that’s it, and he’s just not as good at ignoring what people think as he thinks he is. Maybe he just hates being bad at something.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Courf asks.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Were you not here five minutes ago? When we explained that everything Grantaire said to me was addressing what an awful dancer I am?”

“Not everything.”

He huffs. “What else -”

“What about, ‘if either of you have any free time’ - ? That wasn’t for ‘Ponine’s benefit. If he thought you were so bad, he didn’t have to say _that_ to your face. That, my friend, was an explicit invitation.”

Frankly, Enjolras is more inclined to square that away as a joke, and not one Grantaire honestly expects to be taken up on. “But why would he -”

“Go to prove him wrong,” Ferre suggests. He has a funny way of sounding like he can read Enjolras’ mind. “If you don’t go, you’ll be kicking yourself, I’m sure.”

“It’s _Grantaire_ ,” Courf wheedles.

“I know.” He gnaws on his lip, thinking of everything that could go wrong with this situation. “That’s why I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

They’re both still eyeing him. “I’ll - I’ll _think_ about it,” he declares, to buy himself more time. It’s good enough for them, and finally the discussion meanders away from Grantaire and ballet altogether.

 

It doesn’t come up again until Courf is at the door, supposedly on his way out.

“Convinced yourself yet?” He says, leaning back in.

Enjolras makes a face. “Goodbye, Courfeyrac,” he says, sing-song.  

“I mean, he’s Grantaire.” Courfeyrac repeats breezily. “I love the guy, we all do. Well, maybe not as much as you do -”

Enjolras glares at him until he drops it.

“But you can’t listen to half the things he says.”

Enjolras blows out a slow breath, wondering. Eventually he inclines his head in a very slight nod. It’s just an audition, he tells himself. Just one audition, and that’s it.

Courf grins at him. “You’ll see.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I return, and it's summer at last! 
> 
> In case anyone's interested in my general fic-writing plans, a quick rundown of the sketchy ideas in my head: there's one last (probably actually short) extra E/R scene that's been requested that I might do to follow on from this! After that, if I come back to this ballet!verse, anything else I write will probably shift focus to some of the other amis (most likely more Cosette/Eponine/Marius centred, though I haven't planned anything particular!) Moving away from the ballet!au entirely, I've also been mulling over a summery Marius/Courfeyrac idea that I think I'm probably going to have to wind up writing to get out of my head, which is completely not where I expected to be headed next in the world of les mis fanfic. But I guess we shall see! 
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading! Hope this helps those of you who were sad about the fic ending! <3


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